Whispers in Time
by Cdra
Summary: A collection of short bits from the mind of one Xerxes Break (mostly). Includes AUs, introspections, prompted and unprompted randomness, and... well, a lot of angst. Ratings and lengths vary; please read author notes for each chapter for warnings. May contain shipping, but no smut. Labeled complete only because entries are self-contained; updates may occur.
1. Nightmares (T)

**Prompt:** Alyss &amp; Break, mindfuckery (from my good friend Jou)

**Rating:** T, I think. Nothing too explicit.

**Warnings:** Dissociation. Eye gore. General mindfuckery.

There was a lot of cool formatting with indentation in this on the original tumblr post. Oh well.

* * *

Even now, these nightmares feel too_ real_.

Is he even dreaming? Somehow, it feels more _real_ when he can _see_ in his sleep, when everything has crisp outlines and it's not so fuzzy and indeterminate, fading away too soon, leaving the rest of his senses set high on edge—yes, surely while its happening, while he's not quite _conscious_ enough to realize that it's_ too_ clear, it feels far more real than reality outside does anymore.

( That's part of why he can't help but question if he's even _alive_ anymore, if reality feels more distant than a past that by all means should have faded by now but absolutely _refuses_ to. )

He can't count how many times he's been here, in the core, his empty left socket bleeding out—it still _hurts_, or it _seems_ like it _should_, phantom pain at the tips of the optic nerves so _cleanly _yet _crudely_ and _cruelly_ exposed—and he feels like he'll go mad from it, from the suffocating pressure on his lungs that can only be described as this place's _air_. But he's older, even if he doesn't appear it, and he's already _burning up_, already being _shredded from within_ by the power _she_gave him, and the idea that you _can't feel pain_ in dreams seems like an _insane_ myth compared to everything he_ knows_ by now.

In one moment she's smiling, hands folded dainty over her breast, those innocent and pure and _flawlessly_ pale white fingers that he knows _far_ too well the capability of—and she giggles, leans down to greet him with childish exuberance. "_You came to play with me?_" she's so happy, the _honest_ voice of a _lonely_ child—and he _wants_ to believe that's all there is to it,_ really_ he does. She says _red_ is a lovely color on him, that she really loves his_ eye _and the empty crimson socket alike, but she doesn't mention that she _made_ that hole, that she could just as well _make_ the other match it—she's forgotten that, for now, it seems.

Whatever causes her to _change_, he has no idea—but it always seems to happen, her simple happiness flowing into _mania_, violet eyes mad and disfocused but they're still fixed on him, _always_ fixed on him, for while he's _here,_ he has center stage. And those perfect, pure fingers wrap around his neck—he can't move, much less escape, paralyzed by pain or fear or confusion or perhaps all of those things at once. He can't breathe, either, though it's not like he could before, and he's not sure what she's saying anymore—

—until she begins to cry; she always begins to cry.

"_Why haven't you saved me yet? Why do I have to keep suffering like this?"_ she_ pleads_, throat strained, words coated in pain like _she's_ the one whose windpipe is being crushed— ( what if it was, what if he reached out and grabbed that tiny, _flawless_ neck {it wouldn't even take both hands, would it?} and _squeezed_— ) but soon enough her grip loosens and she's just holding his collar as she sinks down to his level, to her knees as well, and she sobs and it's his fault, he'd almost rather be strangled than remember that it's his fault and he promised her and—

—isn't that wrong? But at the same time, it's right; this is a responsibility_ he_ took, a promise _he_ made, and he keeps his word, and even though his throat is so dry it could break apart into brittle fragments if he _dares_ push air through it he whispers "just a little longer," because even if hatred is gnawing at him as well he is the only one at fault here—truly, there is no reason that she should have to remain as she is, and yet…

Somehow, it always seems to be when he reaches out to her (to comfort her or to _destroy _her, because he did _promise_ to do so, and sometimes he can't help but think he'd be best to just _kill her himself_ as though that would _work _and could actually_ happen_) that the scene fades away, blurry reality returning, and the _blood_ is gone but there's _pain_ lingering throughout him—he gasps, for if one thing _does_ feel right it's the air that _burns_ but doesn't constrict his chest further, the plain and familiar taste of breathing in this invisible, painful reality.


	2. Goodbye (T, BreakSharon)

**Prompt:** "A kiss to say goodbye forever" (from Sharon) (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Character death, hooray!

This made me very upset for several hours after writing it.

* * *

Underneath everything, this is what's left of him.

It's cruel, indeed, how Fate chooses these horrible moments in which to collapse, bringing _her_ here as he's barely conscious, as he has already accepted the encroaching darkness and given himself over to the inevitable—how in this numbness destiny dares bring such _regret_ to him, dares to expose his whole self, his whole weakness to such precious people. It's cruel, it's horrible, and yet it's _warm_—he's growing colder, breaths shallower by the tick of the clock, the last of his fire threatening to extinguish at any moment—even now, he seems to be sapping her body heat, stealing away some fragment of that fractured youth as the final scar he would leave behind.

For it is _scars_ he has left on this world, countless deep red marks which will never truly heal; he can no longer _see_ the tears, but sure as hell he can feel them, this girl's and this boy's and his _own_—ahh, how despicable can he be, allowing himself to show such an emotion in his final hour? Really, with all his layers and strength peeled away, he's just as _human_ as anyone else, just as useless and weak—

—there is no _light_ to fade, for his vision has already rotted away completely; no, what's fading is that _warmth_, growing distant as his desperate grip over those shoulders slackens, the tension he's held for so long finally, _finally_ slipping away—

—ahh, this smile on his lips is _disgustingly_ genuine, as well, isn't it?

And it is only after his _body_ is no longer truly aware, fully limp, that she just barely rights herself, though she has not let go of him—and gently, feather-light despite the night-_infinite_ weight of the gesture, she presses her lips to his closed eye, the eyelashes she had wondered idly about touching, that one window into the world they shared.


	3. Chains of Fate (K, AU)

**Prompt:** "What if Break was reincarnated as a Chain" (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** K+

**Warnings:** Mentions of character death. He got better (or something).

This drabble spawned a whole verse on my blog including one of my absolute favorite threads I have going right now.

* * *

This isn't how it was supposed to go, not how legends and stories old and unsourceable explained it; this isn't anything he could have expected and it isn't anything he could have prepared for, because no matter what the unchangeable, terrible truth of the matter is that he was _dead_, that he _died_ in their arms, that though he did not wish to die—though he was not _finished_ with that world—he was never going to open his eye again.

Yet here he is, here is this familiar darkness in his vision—he is _alive_, though he is sure that it is only in the _strictest_ sense.

He is not _breathing_, precisely, and his body does not feel the same (as what?)—it is light, void of pain, and though it moves like he remembers there is something _hollow_ about how his joints flow against one another, something _surreal_ about how his feet do not always touch the ground but regardless he walks, floats, shambles (or _whatever_ this is) along. Though his body seems so empty his mind is anything but, thoughts of unclear origin sprouting up at every turn—these are _instincts_, he realizes, the inbuilt knowledge of his being, the things he must know in order to _exist_ in this way—or at least, many of them are—

—these others, these _memories_, are surely the stranger ones.

Ah, but they _are_ his, are they not? That human _life_ is his all the same, and that _death_ as well—those memories are what shape him, give him a form so near to the one they _properly_ belonged to. He _is_ and he _is not_ the same, but his is the sort of being conceived of beloved memories and a fragmented soul, of still-warm flesh and dark black energy. So then, if there is no need to _reject_ this shape or these thoughts, then it cannot be wrong to wonder of that past, to echo these desires—

—so first, he must find _her_, if he is to try to keep his word—

—but he also must seek some way to see the other side, for he _must_ know what it is he left behind, if that future was able to become reality; he cannot _rest_, no, not until he is _sure_ that he has done all that he could.

( whether that is as that _human_, or as _this_ chain. )


	4. Monochrome and Red (M?, AU)

**Prompt:** "what iF DANGAN AU AND SHARON WAS THE NEXT VICTIM" (from Fluffy, sic)

**Rating:** M?

**Warnings:** Character death, yay!

I'm totally clever.

* * *

Never has he liked the color _red_—it's always haunted him, it seems, whether in odd words from strangers about his _eyes_ or in _stains_ on the skin of a victim or in _nightmares_—even if he takes joy in something like others' _pain_ he'd never claim to love that _hue_ so closely tied to it.

In this moment, he can think of nothing he hates more, in fact.

The same announcement rings overhead but he cannot hear it—he can see nothing but _her_ and the _color_ that doesn't _suit her _at all and he so wishes he was _blind_ or _dead in her place_ or anywhere but _here_, standing powerless over the still form of the most _precious_ thing he has known in his life. He could not _stop this_ and for that the blood may as well be on his _own_ hands, dying him crimson and then _black_—yes, at least then he could say his own _end_ was coming at the hands of some sick _trial_ and he'd _die_ for this mistake—

—but he cannot go blind, cannot expect his retribution; he can only stand stiff and stare as the others surround him and her, knowing the clock will march on, knowing that they must find the killer, even if doing so could _never_ take the immense weight of guilt off of his own shoulders.


	5. Family Business (T?, AU)

**Prompts:** "what if mafia Break" (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** T?

**Warnings:** Blood and torture mentions. Very cool.

I mostly like envisioning Break in an old-style mafioso suit. I think there's a pixiv log like that...

* * *

For once, a smile seems to fit on his face—though, it's a lopsided grin to match lopsided features, that one eye seeming to gleam in the dim light as his head tilts in mock curiosity. Perhaps its the very fact that his lips are upturned out of _genuine_ amusement that makes it so right yet so awfully _strange_ that it could only belong on him, the man leaning onto one propped-up leg, its respective foot situated heavy on the arm of the chair that the entire room seems to be centered on.

"We won't come to such an… _unfortunate_ circumstance again, will we~?" he hums, tone airy yet almost childishly pleased with the ragged breathing of his victim; he is _cruel_ and he does not mind it, for it is a necessity at times like this, and what harm is it if he can derive a little _fun_ from cruelty? Perhaps he is far damaged already to think such a thing, but that, too, is only part of the job.

The seated man does not respond, to no surprise of Xerxes's—not with more than a nod, the error of _crossing_ the Rainsworth family carved into his flesh and mind in kind. The enforcer can only hope the scars he leaves are deep, the kind that can never be forgotten, the kind that bring back ghosts of pain every time they are seen in a mirror—he hates to _kill_ a valuable resource (as he hates to kill at all, but that much he will not say or even _think_), and perhaps if such a lesson can be learned… the albino wipes the silver blade in his hand clean of red, closing his eye with a soft hum.

"You should be glad that milady is merciful enough to give you a second chance—so, I ask that you don't make her regret it, alright~?"


	6. New Years Eve (K, BreakSharon)

**Prompt:** New Year's Kiss for Sharon (from Fluffy, as my Sharon)

**Rating:** K

**Warnings:** BreakSharon. Kinda.

Can you believe I sometimes write shippish things. Can you believe I sometimes write fluff. I can't.

* * *

It's been a long time since they could attend the New Year's extravaganzas that, by all means, a young noblewoman should be attending on such a holiday; it's the choice they made, the risk they took in their contracts, and it's pushed them out of the eye of high society except for in terribly special cases. Xerxes can't say he minds—he was never a man of parties or frivolities—but he feels bad for Sharon, for the loss of the life she should have been able to lead, especially as they're alone on even this night.

They had made it a celebration of their own, with a few choice friends and servants, a chance to drink and be merry and enjoy the holiday as it is meant to be, but surely it wasn't the same—they were trapped for it, but they would make the best of what they could, would they not?

But the last minute is ticking down on the clock now, and the idea of kisses at midnight has only been tossed around in jest—even so he saw that sad smile she gave at the idea, and again he feels the weight of her lost youth. For she has never truly met with suitors (if she has even had interest in them) and she has surely not been part in such a tradition, but she has heard the story and it is yet another thing lost, as he sees it.

He doesn't want to think she lost anything for him—he isn't sure if that's it at all, but he also has no way of knowing; he can't read her mind, can't ask such a thing, but she is always his support even when he doesn't wish for it, even when he most wishes to be hers. It's that sort of mysterious thing that ties them together beyond mistress and servant, beyond childhood friends and sibling figures.

She's had a bit to drink herself and she's counting down with the second-hand of the clock, and it's only because time is passing so very steadily yet surely that he's able to do something so near _impulsive_, pressing her shoulder aside to make her face him as her counting grows quieter in mild surprise—

( It's just for the sake of tradition, he says to himself, and giving her something like a normal holiday (though from him, it's always going to be anything but), just to make good on the joking words from before. )

It's not an extravagant kiss, but the timing is perfect—as she finishes whispering the final "one" his lips brush over hers, almost light enough to mean nothing at all. But he's gently holding her chin in delicate, careful fingers and he moves back just a bit more slowly than he perhaps ought to, with his usual smile—though just maybe, through a trick of the eye, it's gentler than it usually is, just as his tone is maybe a touch softer than normal as well.

( That's all it is, he says to himself, nothing more—but he doesn't express anything like that aloud. )

"Happy New Year, Milady."


	7. Use and Abuse (T?)

**Prompt:** From Ro (as my Gilbert): Send "Break Me" for an angsty drabble about our characters. Interpreted rather literally.

**Rating:** T.

**Warnings:** Abuse probably. Mental instability? Not very explicit though as the piece is mostly introspective as usual.

I go back and forth on whether or not I ship these two, but anyway, anything I write for Ro is not intended as shipping. And besides that, this is just Break beating the shit out of Gilbert so I don't know where you'd get shipping but, just to be clear I guess?

* * *

He is made to break everything.

She asked him to destroy her very _existence_ and gave him the _power_ to do so, made him _poison_ to those "like him"; he destroyed his own _past_, destroyed his own _self_; he is the one who took _destruction_ into his own _name_ and became the art of breaking.

And, as _things_ designed for an _end_ are wont to do, he shall _use_ what he is given and _make good_ on what he is _built_ for.

He has never been good at seeing things _whole_—he would rather them _splintered_ and _fragmented_ as he is and has been, in nice easy-to-understand pieces as they suffer. And this man (he is only a _child_ in that red eye, even as he grows) is so very _fragile_, cracks spreading like veins through a resolve that seems so noble yet so very twisted and _familiar_—_god_, it's _familiar_, and that's what irritates him more than he has any idea how to put words to (though by _god_ does he know the _actions_ for it).

Ah, but he is so controlled, so contained—he is so _level_, so simple and selfish, not looking to others in such ways; he knows he is _wrong_, in some way, that he is _warped_ and that he mustn't _show it_, that wishing to use this _awful_ art is an ill of his. Yet his is not a perfect facade, etched strong in marble over the things he's never resolved; it wears thin, cracks and shows what lies beneath when pressed just a bit too far.

The raven should have seen, then, that the _walls_ built to protect them _both_ had eroded. But he didn't—and the elder isn't sure just _what_ about words mostly-innocent has sent that wall crumbling, but he _is_ sure that half of it was the destruction inside _himself_, always eating away at that calm face, and that the rest was some child's mis-step, for children often do not know the bounds of their words.

He is _cruel_—that's simply a truth—but right now he is strung so thin that his entire person seems to be _entropy_ organized into some shape that _resembles_ a human being with another half-broken at his feet. But he has never been good at doing things _halfway_, and his own _affections_ seem to be eating away at that wall between them even more, for he did destroy his very _self_ once, as well.

"You've become so _spoiled_," he _almost_ growls through a grin, _chaos_ leaking out of the cracks in his expression as he draws back his cane, _punctuates_ his words with another blow. "You won't be able to protect anything like that, _Lord Gilbert Nightray_." He hisses the name—it's _correct_, technically speaking, but to them both it surely feels _wrong_; it tastes a bit like _iron_ on his tongue.

"Did you misunderstand me?" his tone grows light as his expression stays so horridly _mismatched_, stuck smiling somewhere between pain and pleasure and amusement and pity and apology. The cane lands again, not leaving room for answer; he _shouldn't_ answer, after all, shouldn't even be _able_ to. "You must be cruel enough to destroy anything else… yet, you're dreadfully soft. Why, you may be even softer than you used to be."

"If you can't destroy anything, you can't protect anything—

"Maybe if _you_ break, yourself, you'll understand."


	8. On Killing (M)

**Prompt:** None.

**Rating:** M for violence.

**Warnings:** Violence, murder, sadism, insanity mentions, _this is the perspective of a serial killer_.

I wanted to establish how I would write Kevin's perspective during the Red Eyed Phantom incidents and sorta figure out how it continues to affect Break present-day. I had a good time.

* * *

The first time, he hesitated.

He'd done it before, but only at his Lord's orders, only for his Lord's safety and with some sort of clear conscience. But this time, her eyes were only afraid—there was no malice, no retaliation, only fear and tears and _could he really do this_?

{ all for the sake of their future,  
all for the sake of his masters. }

It would kill at his side; for that, he could not feel so heavy, but this woman had seen his face as it destroyed the rest of the party guests and it had to be him, he had to kill her before she screamed or ran or—

He was panicking, hesitating, but  
the mantra continued in his mind  
and then her blood coated his sword.

The second time was so much easier—for that one glared at him and showed a threat and that was enough, after he'd done this to an innocent, to make slicing him to bits seem so simple. There was no what have I done, no how could I do this—only _one more, Albus, here's another_.

{ he should have known right then  
that he was already going _mad_. }

By the fifth time it was almost _fun_, in some sick and warped way—there was something so fascinating about how they screamed and writhed (he no longer remembered what they looked like), something so human about how they broke (like he was breaking), something so satisfying about the feeling of a blade slicing through muscle (just as it's intended to).

By the tenth time he could draw it out, smile and laugh in some sadistic amusement—his pain flowed through his sword and into their body, their blood flowed out and onto the ground and proved his name again and again—

{ red eyes, red blood, red misfortune, red madness }

—and each kill was just a step closer to the goal he had to reach, the thing he continued to tell himself was his reason.

{ all for their sakes, _all for their sakes_ }

Sometimes he remembers her face, the first one's face, and he feels ill—sometimes he remembers the sensation of the tenth and twelfth and twentieth and he hates himself, hates the madness that so easily consumed him, hates that he still sometimes craves the way that sensation seemed to fit so perfectly into his being.

{ he's so warped, so broken—  
—he can't become whole again, either;  
destruction is his very being now, after all. }


	9. Chained and Broken Wings (T, AU)

**Prompt:** "what if kevin was an archangel and fell for some reason" (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Blood and stuff.

Fallen angel AUs are always good.

* * *

The ground is approaching fast and he swears he's on _fire_, the atmosphere burning against his skin and he can't even see the trail of feathers he's sure to be shedding—the pain is too great, it's consuming his thoughts and his vision; his head is ringing with it.

Is he a shooting star, streaking through the dim sky—are there children whispering wishes at his burning form, asking something of him which he surely cannot do? For he has made his errors and proved himself useless—he is a servant who cannot help his masters, a guardian who can protect nothing at all. There is some god which is not his master laughing at him now, he is sure; he can hear it, somehow, amid the ripping winds.

Ah, what _foolishness_—he is a hopeless thing, fallen prey to sinful whispers (his very antithesis, but he is so _weak_—he only thought of them, didn't he, when he turned his back on heaven?); this is his apt fate, for there is nothing pure about his whiteness, all stained with red, and for those stains he _deserves_ this. This maddening pulse of pain, this fiery grip like chains pulling him fast toward the earth—this is his retribution, that's what she said, and beneath the buzzing nothingness he believes that.

The earth is cold but somehow it's comforting—though it is so strange to breath this thick air he is here, not crumbling to ash in an inglorious blaze.

Maybe, if he just closes his eye, it will end like this, dark and cool and almost comfortable.


	10. Miracles (T, AU) -Reim-

**Prompt:** "fantasy/rpg au type thing where reim's a cleric but he can't quite manage to heal break enough to save his life" (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Character death. That seems to happen a lot.

This was my first time writing Reim's perspective-I still don't know that I have a good grip on it. And so, this bit is a little out of place here where the rest of them are Xerxes's introspections mostly, but whatever.

* * *

Not good enough, not good enough, _not good enough_—

It's not as though he's _unskilled_—rather, this is what he's most good for, the one reason which he can stand on a battlefield at their sides—but though magic is powerful it isn't meant to fix the kind of wounds which have formed slowly, eaten into the entire body from inside. It's meant to reverse a moment's damage, to stitch up gashes and reset bones—it's not as though he lacks the _knowledge_ to do such a thing, to work what many would call miracles. But no matter what he knows, no matter how he tries—

—he's still not breathing any better, he's still not coming to—

Silently he's begging, _begging_ for something to change, but even as he's pouring out his spirit (_literally_, as it were) and offering it as tribute for this person's life it's not working, it's not good enough—as though everything in him isn't _good enough_, as though this is some inevitable, ironic Fate that was chosen for them long in advance, that he'd be unable to repair the one thing he's _wished_ he could fix for a very long time.

He looks so well, so peaceful now—everything on his surface is as well as it's ever been—as the cleric collapses, his own consciousness flickering.

—it seems so _unfair_; he wouldn't even let himself be saved in the end.


	11. Useless (T, AU)

**Prompt:** "Au where Break has to kill Gil because Gil's completely lost to the Baskerville side and is about to fuck up the world with Raven" (from Ro)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Mentions of death, for sure. Mild violence? Not really even.

Ro likes things that are painful.

* * *

Really, it's sort of funny—  
—_this_ isn't the person he thought he'd be having to kill.

Those flames are dangerous, to be sure, but he knows all too well this man's weaknesses—he's fought with him too many times, all in good fun of course, for him to slip up now even if he can't see a thing and his gut is wrenching in the most awful of ways before he even thinks to summon Mad Hatter. Gilbert wears out fast from using it—he's not very practiced with the thing, either, and those small blessings are all he can count on here.

How awful, he finds himself thinking, chuckling into the blackness—he's let that color eat away his own mind as well, let himself truly intend to kill a person he truly thought he understood. Maybe it's exactly because he understood that he has to do this—he has to destroy him, before that understanding is gone completely. That's his nature, after all.

Ah, but it hurts—as he's diving between those black wings, relying on his own power to clear a path (he can do this, he's the only one who can do this, he can destroy anything _he can deny this man's very existence_), it's not the heat of the flames which is burning through him. It's something hateful, something already broken—it's disgusting, he's disgusting.

One strike—that's what he needs, and it's all that he'll probably manage before he falls. But this is his pupil, this is his _mistake_—

—the blade's at his neck, and he _laughs_, a dry and cracked sound, _breaking_ as it leaves his throat, _breaking_ as he apologizes for the last time.


	12. Understanding (T?)

**Prompt:** "some sort of chain fusion thingy lik e over time, mad hatter's qualities start blending in with break's own?" (from Fluffy)

**Rating:** K+

**Warnings:** Nah. Maybe a little bit of mental shenanigans.

This is kind of a running headcanon I have anyway, so it was fun to write about.

* * *

He's felt this sensation before, this fuzzy feeling of something rotting away inside him—it's flavored a bit like madness, a bit like steel, creeping up silently into his head while he couldn't possibly have noticed it.

It's different, though, because last time it was a bloody obsession—last time it was a fixation on _her_ and on devouring, laying waste in order to consume. This time, the fixation is colored differently; it's not an undying, loving devotion, or maybe it is, but if it is it's a frozen and cruel one. And it doesn't wish to devour—it has no desire to consume—but it wishes to destroy, to break its own kind, and he knows what it is as he's gripping at and cracking already-rotten clay.

It's slow, subtle and dreadfully sinister in that way—he didn't even notice it, after all, filtered through that mirror. The Knight's mind was so close to his, their bodies bound so tightly by that awful Seal of blood—but the Hatter is distant, cold; even if the bond is forged in the same way it isn't attached to his body and soul. That's what he thought, anyway—but he's starting to understand it, starting to see what it was made for.

Maybe the subtly of it all isn't just the distance between them, on top of the years they've spent together. Maybe it's the fact that it was made for him that makes these feelings so natural, even though he's beginning to realize they're not his own at all. It was born to destroy its own kind—he's already done plenty of that.

Maybe the connection is just an illusion—maybe he just understands it, after all.

( if that's the case, he almost pities it. )


	13. Coffee (K, BreakReim)

**Prompt:** BreakReim and modern AU (from Button)

**Rating:** K

**Warnings:** BreakReim.

I end up writing so much fluff with these two. It's simultaneously amazing and also weird as hell.

* * *

He doesn't even _like_ coffee—it's much too bitter, no matter how much sugar he douses it in—but the women at the cafe all know him and his order by heart.

Maybe he really has done this a thousand times—it's always morning, no longer perfectly early, the odd moment between the start of the day and lunchtime, when he drops in; it's not every day, certainly, but he can tell the days that he needs it and it's not like Xerxes is going to actually _do his paperwork_ in order to lighten the load on that man's shoulders. (there are too many reasons for that; none of them matter.)

He slips into the office unannounced, uninvited—he doesn't bother to knock on the door anymore, if he ever did in the first place. That's exactly the expression he expected, he thinks, almond eyes glaring from behind oval lenses, and a sigh that says both "I don't have _time_ for this" and "I'm not in the _mood_ for this" in succinct exasperation—and it's not as though he'd expect (or _want_, really) Reim to have any more faith in him than that.

The drink is set on top of a report (intentionally, but he's going to deny it) as he leans over the desk, seeming to touch everything and _he could really make a mess here_ (he's won't, but he's going to make the illusion of it). It's a rare chance, while the brunet's just a little too flustered over the possibilities at hand and he's sitting below eye-level, for him to place a tiny kiss on his forehead—

—there's a pause, and then all at once he's shouting about how _you're trying to distract me_ and _I'm really busy right now_ and _don't you have something better to be doing_, but Xerxes only laughs.


	14. On Mirrors (T)

**Prompt:** None.

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Dissociation. Identity crisis?

There were a lot of reasons that I think Break had some major identity issues when he came out of Abyss. I wanted to explore those a little.

* * *

The man in the mirror is not him.

He knows this because as he faces it, he doesn't see it straight-on—it's some funny angle, lest he turns his head, and it's nothing like staring into a mirror. He knows this because the image has no light in its eye, and though he only feels darkness inside his own he doesn't remember his face looking so tired and worn. Because half its face is covered anyway and he's _sure_ that under those bandages is the face of someone else entirely, not the symmetrical other half of his own.

And, because he isn't himself, either.

_My name is Xerxes Break_—he thinks it again, repeats it weakly, the same way he faltered the first time he gave it to someone else. It doesn't stick—it buzzes, hums and falls into the emptiness from its own weight. The man in the mirror tries to look determined, but instead seems that he may cry. He turns away from it and he can see it better like this; if it can see him, what does it see?

_Nothing_; he is certain of it.

Perhaps the man in the mirror _is_ Xerxes Break—he is the image to which that name is attached. Perhaps the man who once dwelt in the glass is Kevin Regnard—he is not there anymore.

As for _him_, he is not the man in the mirror—  
—he is not anyone at all.


	15. Shame (T)

**Prompt:** None.

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Eye trauma.

Perspective exploration on the scene where young Break is scratching at his eye socket and tiny Reim tries to stop him.

* * *

They're talking about him again.

He doesn't blame them—he must be such a spectacle, such an anomaly that any amount of gossip about him would only be natural. That doesn't mean he wishes to hear them; he wishes he could bandage up his ears and mute it all. Mostly, the words don't reach him through his thoughts, but just knowing they're there, out in the air, is already too much.

It itches, itches and _burns_—there's only a fuzzy blank in his vision on that side (it helps a little, the fact he can't see them moving about as they speak) but it feels like a gaping void as it continues to scratch at his mind. It won't let him forget, even if he closes his eye and surrenders to the darkness, that something's missing there. So instead he stares out the window, when he can, trying to lose himself in the scenery—it doesn't work, of course.

Their chatter seems to aggravate the itching more, much as he tries not to overhear the drone of whispers and mutters. There's nothing _there_—there _should be_ something there, it's empty because it was stolen and it itches because it's empty and it was stolen because he's such a goddamn _fool_—

—he doesn't even realize that he's started to scratch at it, slipped his fingers between bandages and eyelids as though they could fill that burning hole. He realizes it when there are hands on his shoulders, a nearby voice chiding him (noisy, so _noisy_).

"Hey, you can't do that—it won't heal if you mess with it—!"

"—Shut up!"

Lashing out is just his instinct—he throws the small body aside, violence surging through his own. How dare this _child_ (in his truly _pure_ intentions; how nauseating) bother with him?! His body becomes rigid again, his expression fueled with pain and adrenaline and god just how much of an _animal_ must he look like with red leaking out of his socket, onto the bandages and all over his fingers—

Through clenched teeth he growls, nearly choking on gasps of air as heat fills his good eye.

"Leave me alone… don't bother with me…!"

(why is he staring like that, why hasn't he run yet, why won't he just leave me be?!)

"Don't… _don't look at me—!_"


	16. Ghosts (T, AU)

**Prompt:** "So you know that part where Break's like "Don't die, you're being stupid?" Ok but, what if Break lives and Vincent ends up dying somehow, either protecting him, or using his power as a child of the abyss to try and stop the abyss or something and Break's still alive after failing to save Vince and ends up at his funeral or over his grave or something iunno-" (from Ro, who is my Vincent)

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Character death mentions. And stuff.

Still laughing at how long Ro's prompt is for this. This relationship really is fascinating to me.

* * *

He hated Vincent—nothing more, nothing less. That much is a simple truth; that much, he can be certain of.

What seems _strange_, then, is why he feels so upset standing at the drain rat's headstone.

In a strange and passionate and final moment, he had said such strange and passionate and (or so he thought they'd be) final words to a man who he even now feels nothing but loathing toward; there is nothing but irony in the fact that he is alive now and Vincent is not. It's all wrong, as so many things seem to be; he still can't see the site of the grave, but he can feel the cold melancholy in the air inhabited only by the dead. Maybe _Xerxes_ fits better in a graveyard than anywhere else, too—isn't he a ghost, too?

A ghost in flesh and blood, a man who should have died many times over by now, yet still he can stand and ruminate over another.

His gut is twisted up and he kicks some of the dirt on the ground, hoping it conveys his discontentment and disrespect well enough—a click is expelled from his lips, mixed anger and disappointment and he's not even sure what the names for all those emotions are but knows that he doesn't like them. Does he want to say anything to this person, still? Does he want to yell at him again, to hiss his disapproval without concealment? Does he wish to clear the air with the dead, to reveal himself to someone who can't say anything about it?

Xerxes lets out a long sight—it's the only expression he can settle on, because even though he's not sure what he means by it, it still seems to untangle some of the tightness in his core. "I guess you're happy," he mumbles, looking upward into the blackness, feeling the dry wind ruffle his hair, "you got what you wanted, didn't you? Well, part of it…"

Another deep breath—he wants to leave his regrets here, he thinks, but he's never been good at leaving anything behind. Something in him wants to say he understood, or that he got what was coming to him, or that he was a complete idiot to the end, or that he's sorry he didn't speak up sooner, maybe. But honesty is not, and never will be, the albino's specialty.

"Rest in peace," is all he can bring himself to say, instead.


	17. Cracking (M)

**Prompt:** None.

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** Violence, mental instability, angst trash, sadism, blood and gore mentions, just. Generally proceed with caution. Oh, and also implied BreakReim.

Sometimes I just need to hurt my muse.

* * *

He's breaking apart at the seams. His body is strung tight, but no amount of _tension_ can stop the cracks from spreading in time—a facade built on another facade built on _another_ is crumbling under the strain of gluing one together and another and another, and memories are playing games with his heart and mind as though conspiring to destroy his very perception of reality.

Standing stock-still he stares at the ground, surrounded in silence except for the occasional drip of blood or water—air cuts at his ragged lungs as he breathes, tearing his insides open as his outside barely maintains form, taking such shallow breaths as though they may damage him a bit less (no, he is already damaged enough). Lingering alone over a battlefield is not new to him—he has been the only one left alive more than his share of times, as the killer and the victim alike. Of those things, he is both in this moment—he is not sure which he should be, but he knows that something is on his sword and so he's not innocent—_ha!_, as though he could ever be _innocent_ again.

What fills his body is surely not _sadness_—burning beneath the _madness_ and _satisfaction_ is _disdain_ directed at no one but _himself_.

One of the facades (is it even that, anymore?) is demanding _more_—drive that blade into another thing, feel how it splits and falls, maybe see how it bleeds and breaks—but there's nothing there, nothing that's not already completely destroyed, and he can't allow it, so that's for the best. His gaze isn't all there, doesn't see the scene for what it is—he could be anywhere, so long as it's somewhere he left broken. Maybe he remembered, a few minutes ago, that this was a job, that Pandora had sent him here, but even the meaning of that name is fuzzy on his mind as he clenches his sword and shifts his weight. The air is heavy and distorted, but it does not keep him from hearing—he snaps toward the sound of something crunching under a footstep, eye wild and red as blood.

It's a living thing—he's rigid, practically made of adrenaline and ready to fight or flee, wondering which of them will strike first. It says something—maybe his name, but he's not sure—and his tensed form snaps, shooting forward to steal the initiative out from under it. It doesn't fight back, but it evades him, not too gracefully. He whirls back toward it and he's in pursuit, gone into the chase. The blade grazes it as it stumbles back again (almost, _almost_—he felt it though, he definitely _felt it_); he's harmed plenty of harmless things before.

There's a voice in the air, sharp and breathless, and it's speaking to him; he can hear it say "stop" and "snap out of it", and maybe something in him wants to obey, but that thought is quiet against the raging storm. He isn't obedient, not to this voice—he's an animal gone feral, not a _faithful servant_ any longer, and his smile is wicked in spite of himself. Yes, it's simple—he is _destructive_, wholly _indiscriminately_ so, and this thing he's cornered, too—

Silver flashes and the blade meets a shoulder, drives in through cloth—red spills onto black and it's hard to see, but with how he's not looking at anything, it doesn't much faze him. (Is he in that past, killing for the sake of his wish? Is he in some other, fighting monsters for the sake of his goal? Or is he in his own mind, breaking his own self?) It's simply the feeling of flesh yielding to metal that he seeks—and maybe there's that sound of pain, maybe that makes him regret it a little, maybe it's what causes him to laugh.

There are hands on his arms but he has no fear of them—it isn't to be feared, it isn't any danger in the face of the blackness that wisps out of his shadow and his back even as blood drips from his lips. This part of him does not know guilt, it does not know fear or sorrow—but this thing is gripping his arms, and it's a _familiar_ grip, fearless as he is, and that's what lets him remember that he is so _terrified_ of his own actions somewhere under those broken and twisted facades.

His lungs twist in on him as he spits up a mouthful more crimson, pale grip shaking around his sword—he twists it a little, but then that voice makes him halt again, his grin dropping completely as he stares at his clearing vision. "Xerxes, _listen to me_—!" He can hear it, he can understand it, he _knows that voice_ and he's scared _stiff_ of the reality he can feel creeping back into his head, but he can't stop it, he doesn't _want_ to stop it. Those hands are shaking him roughly, so very unafraid, so very _real_.

Is _he_ real again, too?

He chokes on his own blood again, doubling over into this person's chest, sputtering as his off hand grabs onto this _person's_ arm—it hurts, everything in his chest _hurts_, but he's still holding the blade, he can't just let go of it and let go of his _detestable_ self at the same time. They are both breathing shallowly—surely they're both so _scared_, even if it's not really showing—and weakly, bitterly, all he knows how to do is laugh.

"I'm sorry…" he detests those words, but not nearly so much as he hates what he's done and what he's become again, "I'm sorry," so he just repeats them again in spite of himself. Unable to look this person in the face, he simply reaches forward with shaking fingers, touches the bloodstain he's created. How disgusting; that color doesn't suit its wearer. His weakness is showing, through the series of cracked masks—awful, it's awful, he's awful, but at least he's _here_, in a battered and blood-stained room, fingers curling into his friend's coat.

"I'm here now, Reim. I'm alright," he whispers, voice almost breaking on the name—but he had to say it. He had to be sure that he _could_. "I hurt you, I—"

"Shut up, already," he hears, and he looks up in startlement to see a smile far too precious, so purely relieved—he doesn't deserve that kind of warm expression, not even slightly, he never has—it just makes him laugh weakly as he slumps down again, letting his pieces slowly fit back together.


	18. Chess (K) -Vincent-

**Prompt:** How would I portray Vincent Nightray (from Ro)

**Rating:** K?

**Warnings:** Nah.

Brief introspections are a good way to establish character perspective.

* * *

He's very good at chess—he's surprised more than a few people with this. He thinks it's funny, really; perhaps it's because he's young and "inexperienced", and not "truly" nobility, that they underestimate him in a battle of wits, or perhaps it's just that he smiles so gently that he couldn't _possibly_ be so clever underneath that. It's not that he's all that clever, actually, as far as he sees it; he just learned from the best. Not that he could tell anyone that even if he wanted to, though.

No one needs to know how or why he learned to play chess from _Jack Vessalius_.

"Oh, is it my win again?" he lets himself sound legitimately surprised—his ruse is a pretty one, nice to look at and comfortable to hear; people like such things, after all. The truth is ugly, ugly—no one wants to know of such things, nor do they need to. That's the sort of world he exists in, the sort of board he plays chess across: one where a pretty smile and a few strokes of someone's ego will get you far further than any number of truthful words.

Whatever parting words he exchanges with his opponent are dreadfully pointless—he can't even remember them, moments later. Such frivolities and conveniences are second-nature to him, naturally woven into his smiling face and his gentle voice, both such false things that it's practically humorous (in a pointless, slapstick way) that no one ever notices how false they are. But that's just how it is—that's just how people like it to be. It's just as well.

The disgusting reality of _himself_ is a thing that only needs to be _destroyed_.

He hums as he packs away the game's pieces, rolling a bishop between gloved fingers contemplatively. There's a weak point in it—thoughtlessly he presses on it, feels the piece crack in half. It can be replaced—there's no issue with having destroyed it, no mind paid to it at all. _Pieces_ are pointless, in that way, as meaningless as the game which they're a part of.


	19. Someone (K) -Jack-

**Prompt:** None (testing how to write Jack Vessalius)

**Rating:** K+

**Warnings:** Nah

I was randomly stricken with the muse to write him? This was me trying to establish how he thinks of himself and others mostly.

* * *

It's alright if they hate him—that's what he says to himself. In fact, it's almost a funny notion, that he could be someone who could be hated, being that he is hardly _someone_ in the sense that one is a collection of cohesive thoughts and feelings that entwine to create a personality and pattern of behaviors. There is only one thing cohesive about him, after all, and it is not _him_ at all.

( it's _her_, it's always been _her_. )

There is irony in the fact that his soul is a broken thing, scattered across the fragments his own Chain tore it into (not quite, for the thing couldn't think then, but by her daughter's order and hand such was done), embedded in shards of memories that he shared with her flesh and blood. He is not sure that his soul was ever whole, not for more than a fraction of a second when she smiled or sang or breathed the same air as him. Those moments should have been the eternal ones, not this fractured stillness; his body is very much alive, but his mind is so _literally_ broken that he thinks perhaps if he had just _died_ he could have sunk deep into the Abyss and his fragments and hers could have at _least_ been a part of the same air.

But it will not let him die—he isn't sure what _it_ is, here, whether it's her daughter (he probably deserves her ire) or some greater force of Fate (he probably deserves its disdain even more) or even _her_ (he'd be overjoyed if she bothered to feel that toward him). He's a ghost in all but the truest sense, a spirit with a body animated by some sort of demon, a person who's always been completely empty.

Still, for as dead as he is, he decided to give that thing a chance at living as a human; maybe it would understand, then, how dreadful it is to be such a being, how weak and hopeless they are—would it understand him, then? He can't say he cares (but his words don't mean anything); he doesn't mind if it hates him for stealing back his body, either. His intentions are pure—warped, perhaps, but they are singular indeed, unlike his actions and words and thoughts and feelings and honestly, he has no way of knowing if the reasons they hate him are parts of him at all.

That's why it doesn't matter—whatever they think of him is alright. No matter what people think or feel or do, his singular consistency will not change: he will return to her, and bring this entire _world_ with him as his welcoming gift.


	20. Blue (K) -Echo-

**Prompt:** How would I portray Echo (from Lesley)

**Rating:** K

**Warnings:** None

Sad Echo musings I guess. Everything I touch is sad.

* * *

She exists to record everything seen by these eyes. It sounds strange to anyone outside, she's noticed—or rather, that boy seemed to think it was, and really, she hasn't said all that many words to anyone else. She's not made to say anything, after all—an echo only repeats what's said into a space, it doesn't speak on its own. Yes, she isn't anything like them, the people she sees; she's only there to hold this girl in one piece as long as possible, to record what's happened so that this life can continue marching on.

But this life isn't hers. She shouldn't feel anything for it, she should just do as she's told and play her part in accordance. So why does the idea of death scare her, if she doesn't have a life at all—why does she know to think that it's _fear_ she feels? Why is there something that stirs in her chest when she thinks of this or that or him or _him_—they're differently colored sensations, but they're all _there_. Some are cool and some are warm—the warm ones are the strangest, she thinks, because they seem to belong the least.

She's always decked in cool blue, and even if the colors she finds herself in are warm they're deep crimson—a warm and bright feeling like basking in yellow sunlight doesn't suit her at all, she thinks.


	21. Delusion (T)

**Prompt:** I don't know, I think I was just going out of my mind when I wrote this

**Rating:** T+

**Warnings:** Violence, insanity, particularly choking.

I don't remember what spawned this at all. I think it had to do with the Hunger Games simulator causing a lot of death and pain and then we decided Break needed to attack Sharon.

* * *

She wasn't supposed to see him like this—that's the last thing he remembers thinking clearly.

he's laughing, a broken sound in more ways than one; it sticks in his dry throat like glass shards, making only more blood come up as he coughs between fits of hysteric giggling. blood is dripping from his sword, too—right, that's right, she walked in while he was coating it in such—he drops it when she calls out to him, but the laughter isn't getting any quieter.

he's the red-eyed phantom, a killer stained with innocent red down to his bones—his white boots, his white coat, his white hair, his red eyes (eye? he only has one eye)—he's taken more lives than he remembered to count (he lost track after the first few dozen; didn't someone tell him his body count, once?). he has to do it, he enjoys it (he convinced himself of that a long time ago), he craves it (it's so deeply etched into his being that he must)—

his eye's looking nowhere at all and she's still calling out to him (stop saying that word, stop it, stop); she can't see him like this (he can't be seen like this, they'll find out who he is and they'll stop him, he can't let that happen). he's still grinning as he lunges at her—she topples easily—she's fragile, childish, light, weak, god she'd be so easy to _break_.

—does he _want_ to break her?

his hands are around her neck and she's crying (he can't stand that, don't cry, don't cry)—he can see her but he can't make out her features (she's someone he failed, someone he loves, someone he may as well have killed)—her neck is soft and smooth and gives nicely—

he's still smiling, gaze frenzied (brother—brother? is he someone's brother?) as he presses down on her neck and her voice is getting quieter, weaker (he almost couldn't get enough of that, of how she's sputtering in pain, except she's crying like that and it hurts more than the fire in his lungs does)

her fingers are slim and girlish but they're gripping tight onto his wrists, trying to stop him—he's been held by those hand before, so many times, he's held them and protected them and _what the hell is he doing_—

All at once he jerks back, lets her gasp for breath as he stumbles, falls back—in that instant his laugh has turned to gasping and his wild grinning to a look of pure horror. He scrambles backwards, hand coming across his sword—he's killed someone, maybe several people, probably people he was supposed to, but he feels completely sick with himself—at least she's breathing, that's the one solace he can take.


	22. Generations (K?) -Rufus-

**Prompt:** Sheryl died, leaving Sharon in Rufus's care—his love, bordering on obsession, carries over to her.

**Rating:** K+

**Warnings:** Nah.

I'm trash and my Rufus Barma is trash.

* * *

In her poise and commanding grace, she is the spitting image of her grandmother—it must run in the blood, he thinks, to completely captivate the eye like that, for her to carry herself at all times as though her body remembers that it is royalty.

To him, that she is _royalty_ might be an understatement.

For Sheryl became his entire life, a pure love that consumed him and his calculating, logical senses; she gave him such joy without ever saying she returned that love, leaving him hanging on her dress train and wishing that one day, she would offer him such words even as he failed again and again in gestures of love.

Sharon doesn't really look like her grandmother, though, in her features—she has her father's wide eyes, a form much more petite than he ever knew the late Duchess to have. Still, merely being around her brings forth those happy memories without difficulty or provocation—she is Sheryl's child, a generation removed, a true Lady of Rainsworth.

He may be an elderly Duke, but he still bows to her without hesitation.

"Duchess Rainsworth," he calls her from his knees—he cannot yet bring himself to only call her Sharon the way he always only called _her_ Sheryl, but perhaps that day will come yet. He takes her hand in elegant, long fingers and kisses the back of it, steel gray eyes turning up to her face in complete respect and adoration.

"I promised your grandmother many things, as you may know," he tells her, expression level as ever despite the softness in his gaze. "I promised her that our houses would always be allied—and, even if I had to appear as if I would break such confidence, I held fast to that. I hope that you will allow that vow to remain strong."

She smiles sweetly, and he's certain he can see the sun shining in it. "Of course, Duke Barma," she agrees, though he knows she must harbor some dislike toward him yet—she has been prone to proclaim such feelings. But he is willing to put the past behind them—because it is her, because she is her granddaughter, and for little reason else.

Rufus stands, finding himself quite tall next to Sharon, but it isn't unusual—_she_ was bound to a wheelchair in the last many years, after all. He still holds her hand, gently, as if it is the most precious thing in the world. "It is… inconvenient that my true form is now well known, but despite that, I wish to remain at your side as I would with hers, when I am able. There are many things I may wish to impart to you."

She sighs a bit, and he is sure that she's remembering her beloved Hatter—he would be lying if he said it didn't bring a bit of pain to his chest, but he has long learned to ignore such meaningless things in the name of a pure and true love. "I thank you, Duke Barma—there is much I have yet to learn of being a Duchess, is there not?"

He smiles a different smile from the wicked grin she's surely seen before—it's the smile he discovered through Sheryl, one gentle and warm, unusual on his stern face. Once more Rufus lifts her hand to his lips, barely placing a kiss there before releasing it—it is a gesture like fealty, but also one of deep and gentlemanly caring, as he sees it.

"I believe you already know how to play your role—such a thing is writ deep in your blood. I merely wish to assist you where I am able."

He was asked, once, if he was exactly like Jack Vessalius—and maybe, just a little, he is. He is a human in love—and even if that would lead him to madness, or drag him to destroy the entire world for her sake, then he would not hesitate, not even slightly.

Yes, he surely only has a few years to live, after all—he should do his best to spend them at the side of his beloved, even if she is but a spirit that supports this young Duchess.


	23. Innocence Lost (T)

**Prompt:** What if Sharon did a violent thing?

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Mentions of violence, lots of angst.

More specifically, we were doing a randomized Hunger Games simulator thing and Sharon strangled Celestia Ludenburg. So I wrote a reaction.

* * *

It's alright for him to be a monster—it's always been alright, as he's already been ruined by battle and dyed red by violence—but that's exactly why she should never have to stain her hands with blood.

In his eye, Sharon is purity; she is delicate and beautiful, the warm and innocent sunlight which permeated the darkness that had consumed him long ago. He is more than skilled enough to be her shield, more than violent enough to be her sword; if there is any corruption that she should need, for whatever purposes people need it in to survive this corrupt world, Xerxes can shoulder it, already tainted and rotten as he is.

The sight of her with such _violence_ in her eyes is too much to bear.

Something makes his gut twist up, something else makes him shudder, something else yet makes his breath halt and his stare grow wide; he thinks one of those things is fear, one of them is guilt, and one of them is, disgustingly enough, exhilaration. There is something wholly breathtaking about her like that, grown and capable and terrifying—but she is not, not to him. She is a child, something he wishes to protect, and he cannot protect her from herself or from himself if those things become dangerous to her like this.

He falters, stepping back as he plants his feet, not allowing himself to run away—he'll face his guilt head on, for once, for her.

She stumbles back from her victim, falls as she moves to approach him, and she's so pleased with herself in her awfully warped state and no, no she should at least be crying and sick with herself (no, no she shouldn't be guilty that would be even worse). He'd rush to her side, but he's afraid of being near her disheveled and bloody as she is, so all he can do is take a few hesitant steps; he'd kneel beside her, but he's afraid that if he touches her he'll only make the corruption spread more.

So he slumps to his knees in place, as she looks up at him from the ground where she lays; her dress is torn and her hair is wild, but her gaze is almost-innocent, wondering, worried. She's fallen in more ways than one; he knows better than anyone that she won't be able to get back what she's lost today, but he's sort of happy in an awful and wrong way that she's strong but he wishes being strong didn't have to mean becoming broken.

_Broken_—of course, wasn't that inevitable? He _destroys_ everything around him eventually—it was only a matter of time before _she_ broke as well.

Weakly, a laugh cracks out from his throat, a suitably broken sound; there's really something funny about it all, or maybe that's just the pain speaking—he can't really tell, at this point. He holds his face as though it's going to fall apart behind his bangs, and perhaps it is—his smiling face is so fragile and false, barely hiding the broken inside that she doesn't need to see.

The past can't be changed; what's broken will remain such. But if he must, then he'll teach her to pretend she's whole—even if that's all he can do for her, then he'll still do anything at all.


	24. Wake Up (T, BreakSharon?)

**Prompt:** (Your character walks in on mine having a violent flashback and is forced to pin them down for both of their safety. Send me 'wake up' for my character's reaction/coming to with yours still on top of them.) [Fluffy then added, as Sharon:] She's not sure how much longer her hold will last ─ he was always stronger than her, even when thin and deceptively frail, but at the violent adrenaline that pumped through his blood in that moment was easily threatening to throw her off once again. He was asleep, wasn't he? Wasn't that why he couldn't recognize her? "Wake up! Xerx-nii... wake up!"

**Rating:** T

**Warnings:** Um? Mild violence, mentions of blood, nightmares and insanity perhaps?

I enjoyed the hell out of this.

* * *

His nightmares are deep and terrible things, unending and black and twisted; they are one of the many things that persistently keep him from sleep, leading him to long waking hours in the night that only end when he's too tired to do anything else. Usually, his naps are short and light and that's enough to keep him from sinking too far in, but crashing as hard as he had, perhaps it was no surprise that he found returning to the surface a task insurmountable.

His body thrashes and he's grappling with someone, a person but he can't really tell what face they have; he's soaked in red and surrounded by death, fighting to leave the room empty behind him, because every one of them has to die (he has to kill them, more and more—). The scene is dark and warped, memories hardly putting it together correctly (all he can really remember is the red, the thrill, the fight and the smell of death) amid the madness.

The distortion spreads and he's falling, pulled down by cold chains, sinking fast and next thing he knows he's attacking a young girl in a white dress, holding her down with a dagger to her neck—she's hardly afraid of him, she wasn't then either. Everything's spinning and he's clawing at his eye again, something between habit and the phantom sensation of it having just been removed; a dark unreality is holding him tight, constricting his lungs, making his head throb and his body shake.

She's holding him down ("Why haven't you saved me yet, Kevin?") and she's crying ("Wake up!") and she's shaking too ("I don't want to do this anymore!") and she's every regret he's ever had all at once ("Please don't leave me alone!") pounding into his mind and his flesh as his vision is filled completely with red.

_"Wake up"_—he catches those words, a light amid the twisting blackness, and his eye shoots open to reality, caught by the sudden sharpness of it all.

For a moment he only breathes, letting the blur clear out of his sight and the fog clear out of his head; it hurts, everything aches a little but the air that he's drawing in so sharply is so awfully painful that it has to be real; the pressure of her fingers on his arms, her crying face, those things, too, are too awfully real.

_"Sharon,"_ he whispers, breathless—not _milady_, not one of the nameless girls from deep inside his madness, _"Sharon"_—he says it again, as though he wasn't quite sure that he said it the first time, as though it's the only word that he truly knows the meaning of. There's blood on his face—his eye hurts, the one that's missing, and he can only hope that's why, that it's his own sickening crimson and not _hers_.

It's still hard to breathe as he stares straight upward, unable to face her—but his hand lifts, jerky and unsure, and comes to rest on top of hers that's still gripping onto him like death. It's still warmer than his own, even with this, and he can hardly stand to touch it for fear of breaking it—so his fingers just barely touch hers, ensuring that she's really there.


	25. Sealed Heart (K?, BreakReim)

Prompt: "a what-if au-ish scenario where break and reim started a relationship prior to the opera house arc" (from myself)

Rating: K+ for implied makeouts?

Warnings: ReimBreak. Otherwise it's just kinda fluffy.

I was basically woken up by OTP feelings in the middle of the night. That is what my life has come to. That is the level of trash that I am.

* * *

"Wait." It's one hushed syllable, but compared to how feather-light and careless Xerxes's words always are, it seems so infinitely heavy. His hands tense as they faintly clasp Reim's wrists, another measure of weight onto the air, and indeed, the other man's hands freeze in place as if on command.

He doesn't say anything—his fingers are inside a royal blue shirt, fingertips barely tangent to pale skin—but he glances up from behind his spectacles in worry and surprise, seeking affirmation that he hasn't done something dreadfully wrong (Xerxes is so odd, like that, taking everything so casually that the slightest show of unease seems so wrong from him).

The one-eyed man looks away and begins to laugh, not letting the air stay thick for too long, but such an inexplicable expression truthfully does little to placate the oddity of the moment. But he's such a fool that he can't help it—on no grounds does he ever seem to think himself _equal_ to another, but here, it seems absurd that he should allow himself to freely touch Reim and yet call a halt at being touched himself.

It isn't the same, of course. Reim hasn't so many things to hide under his clothing—or under his skin, for that matter.

Large hands slide down, falling gently out of the other's garment. He sighs, gives a little smile; he's sure he doesn't understand, he's not upset. (No, that's wrong—he is upset, but only because his partner is laughing that fake and self-deprecating way.) But delicate fingers don't let his wrists entirely pull away; Xerxes opens his mouth to speak, but he interrupts with "It's fine, I don't have to—"

"It's not that," the albino cuts him off with a grumble, "It's just…" At a loss for words he trails off, hands finally moving to adjust his shirt, hopefully bringing attention to the source of the issue—but not the real one, the one he can't stand to recall, just the thin layer of fabric keeping it concealed.

Before, Reim has noted that this man is like an infinite box of mysteries and puzzles—somehow, he finds himself able to solve them more and more easily now, noticing his indications far more sharply than he used to. "It's nothing you'd understand," Xerxes clarifies, giving a wry smirk—another of his annoying expressions.

"Even if I did, I wouldn't mind," his partner insists, as stubborn as he is, as he leans away; there's a mark of irritation there, which is certainly normal enough—really, Xerxes wouldn't have it any other way. He's being irritating, after all. "I already told you, because it's you—"

"Then why don't you just find out~?"

Bright brown eyes blink a few pointed times in surprise; it sounds like a challenge, a bit, though he's sure that's not how he should take it. The elder undoes his scarf, still not looking at his partner, somewhere between invitation and resignation and Reim realizes that he has a rare opportunity to prove a point by not taking it—but he can't seem to resist his curiosity, either, his drive to solve another one of those puzzles locked around this mysterious man.

Is he nervous, or does he just feel ridiculous for saying it like that? Xerxes has trapped himself in a corner, he notes, between various stiff and unreasonable emotions, between his good sense and his self-loathing and some silly desire to open up—but he can't bring himself to seek an escape now, even as his shirt's pressed upward again and he knows he's instinctively stiffening up.

As his pale chest meets cool air, time freezes around them.

Seconds of silence seem like eternity; Reim is staring at it and Xerxes is quite sure that he's not even _breathing_ as his eye is fixed on nothing at all.

The ice breaks when he brushes his fingers across the horrid insignia; the other man jumps as though he may come out of his skin, only to quickly contain himself and turn to face his friend; he still can't breathe, upon seeing such a sorrowful and fascinated expression, but it's for a very different reason, perhaps.

"It's complete…" Reim mutters absently, noting how the skin is rough over the black seal; only after saying that does he realize that his _first_ concern was that it was still ticking. He snaps back to reality, suddenly aware of how taught the muscles under his fingers are; he pulls his hand away, letting soft cotton fall back over the marking. It takes a second, but he looks up again to find that Xerxes is giving another of his _stupid_ grins—Reim's brow suddenly furrows and he snaps, "So what? So you were an Illegal Contractor once. You're still you _now_, and I still—"

Laughter breaks out of the albino's throat again, loud and joyless, disrupting the words he might have been trying to say; Xerxes puts a hand to his mouth as though to contain it, but he's quite sure that he's laughing because he can't bear to hear any more. "Oh, to be young and naive~!" he laments softly as his giggling dies down; Reim's expression has become a disgruntled grimace on the verge of exploding, in the meantime.

"Don't give me that pitiful old man nonsense." He stops himself short with a grumbling sigh, putting his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he collects his thoughts. But what can he say to someone too stubborn to hear it? So instead, he loosely wraps his arms around Xerxes's small torso, places his forehead to Xerxes's sealed heart—sometimes he just has to accept the mysteries as they are.

The one-eyed man again freezes up, but even the most obstinate old man can't tune out such a gesture. He chuckles weakly, and after a moment, he places his arms over Reim's back as well. He still doesn't understand—he can't possibly, from something so small, but perhaps he had a point—perhaps he doesn't have to understand. Perhaps just allowing him to know could be something good.

"I don't understand, you're right. You're like a damn puzzle box—but that doesn't change how I feel about you, so…"

"—Shut up, won't you?"


	26. On Her (K)

**Prompt:** none (Xerxes's relationship with Shelly)

**Rating:** K

**Warnings:** None.

Just a musing piece.

* * *

What was Shelly, to him?

She was the spring sunlight, something gentle and radiant which passed through the cracks in his darkness, slowly warming him from within; she was the fall breeze, something sweet and clean which brushed over his wounded soul, slowly changing him from without. She was the beating heart which had never before been shown to him, a fragile life blossoming with strength he could never have imagined before, a savior he'd never asked for and yet needed above all things.

She was family in a way he'd never thought possible—mother and sister, caregiver and friend—and he is certain that he loved her.

It does not matter what kind of love it was—whether it was like that of a lover, of family, of a devotee before his angel, he felt love toward her like he had never felt for anyone before (he wouldn't know what kind; it no longer matters, either). It was able to warm him and change him, make a new whole of what had been shattered beyond repair; it was able to give him purpose (even if he had made some other excuse for what he'd live for).

He still loves her enough to let her tell him to live, even when he sees no value in his own life.

And when he sees her daughter stand strong and glow like she used to, he cannot help but feel that warmth once more—but it is different, now, a harsher (and no less beautiful) light which centers itself around him (he is nothing to shine such a spotlight on, and yet, that is exactly what she does). And sometimes, in the quiet of his mind, he wonders if she is looking upon the light she created with adoration still—and if he can ever live enough to fulfill her expectations.


	27. Red Threads (K) -Gilbert-

**Prompt:** none (An idea I had about reincarnated Children of Misfortune still holding tight connections to their pasts, since they operate "outside of the Story". And wouldn't the Baskervilles probably seek to "hire" those children to help them connect to the Abyss, so that the burden wasn't all on one person...?)

**Rating:** K

**Warnings:** None.

Eh, basically my idea here was summed up in the prompt up there. Wrote from Gilbert's perspective for fun. In part, I wanted to kill Ro... in part, BreakGil is just a no-romo OTP for me.

* * *

There should be no one in the Baskerville library, he thinks – at that, certainly not anyone that Gilbert does not know. But the figure casually leafing through an old tome (dusty, it probably is older than him) is not nearly familiar enough, that of a boy (hardly a man by any standard) with long white hair and a pose far too relaxed for any average intruder, his legs thrown up into a nearby chair and crossed over one another, his body slouching into his chosen seat. The raven eyes him from around a corner, trying to ascertain what he could be doing in this place – when suddenly (and far too calmly), the boy speaks up.

"You do realize that I know you're there, no?"

Gilbert can't help but be surprised – he didn't think he'd been making any noise, and the other hadn't even glanced up from the book he was studying (actually, more like squinting at), yet it was completely obvious who that remark was directed at. He rights himself from the momentary shock and steps toward the interloper, putting on a serious expression (he's one of the oldest here, now; he should show his authoritative side in this situation, right?) as he does.

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

The boy rolls his neck toward the elder without an ounce of respect or concern, not quite enough so to be called looking at him. In fact, Gilbert still cannot see his face from this angle – but there's something about that carelessness that annoys him on principle.

"Hey now, no need to be so testy~! Lady Glen brought me here as a 'part-timer' of sorts."

He chuckles and shoots his legs up, then tucks them under his form as he turns more completely toward the Baskerville, now far closer – for Gilbert, the striking crimson of his visible eye (– his bangs over the other, why? there's no way, right?) speaks for itself. The newcomer simply laughs, offering an irritating grin at the man's surprise.

"Something about how it can't hurt to have additional 'Children of Abyss' about so that the others can 'travel more freely', I believe? Really, all of this is quite complicated – since I've the time, I'm taking a moment to read about it, you see."

Travel more freely – then, for Vincent to keep wandering about like he does? It's a nice idea, he should make a note to thank Glen later, but something else is bothering Gilbert far more than that – that irritating manner of speaking, that utter carelessness and his eye – as the albino turns back to squinting at his tome leisurely, the raven only notices more parallels between this person and an old friend (only voice and age aside, really, but it's been a century, so is that even strange?). But for the moment, he tries to put it out of mind.

"Can you not read that? You have spectacles sitting right there, so why –"

"Hmm? I don't like wearing them."

An irritated huff. "You're going to strain your eyes reading that complicated stuff without them – here."

It's nostalgic, trying to push this stubborn fool into doing something reasonable for his own health – despite his protesting, Gilbert grabs the glasses and makes to force them onto the other's face. And despite the way the youth tries to avoid the issue, golden eyes catch sight of the blue-stained, sightless pupil beneath those snow-colored bangs.

But unlike last time, he doesn't scream – he's hardly surprised, and yet his eyes are wide for a different reason entirely.

"Your eye…"

"That? It's been blind since I was born. I suppose I don't particularly like to draw attention to it."

With that, the red-eyed boy slips the spectacles from the other's hand and hooks them into the collar of his shirt to prevent further harassment. The Baskerville's mind is elsewhere entirely, stumbling for the right way to ask the question he's almost certain of the answer to.

"You… didn't tell me your name."

"Did I not?"

Even now, he doesn't seem to care in the slightest – but it's been so long that Gilbert can't even say he's "used to it", more that it's simply so nostalgic that even if it's annoying, it's pleasant.

"It's Kevin."

It's not exactly the answer he was expecting, and for a moment his jaw slackens – but, deep in his memories, he had heard that name from Break's lips before.

"Now, are you going to keep standing there and bothering me, or are you going to do something useful for a change, Gilbert?"

"You're the one messing with me, Break!"

A red eye flicks up to him, brow low and irritated at the sudden outburst (but what else could he do? he hadn't introduced himself, he just knew) – but after a brief pause, Kevin gives another wry, knowing smirk.

"Break – that's not a bad name at all, is it? Perhaps not a great first name, though… well, if you'd rather call me that, I won't take issue with it."

He's still the exact same idiot he always had been – and so Gilbert simply laughs as a warm feeling rises in his chest.

"What, I can't graduate to calling you 'Xerxes' now that I'm older than you?"

And the youth just chuckles at that, as well.

"If you really want to, I suppose."


End file.
